erything that happened. For my part, I've
called to speak of a plan I have in mind for your granddaughter. The
telegram you sent Mrs. West seemed----"

"The telegram I sent Mrs. West? I've sent no telegram to her nor any
one. I don't send telegrams."

"Indeed?" stammered Somerled, taken aback. "I understood--Mrs. West
believed the telegram to be from you----"

"Nothing of the kind. She couldn't have believed it," Mrs. MacDonald
shut him up mercilessly. "She must have been 'romancing,' as I suppose
she would call it. I should call it lying."

Remembering Aline's words, Somerled also was frankly inclined to call it
lying--on the part of the young woman or the old. He would gladly have
blamed the elder, but reason rebelled. Whatever Mrs. MacDonald's faults
might be, she did not seem to be one who would deliberately tell a lie.

"But why should Mrs. West?" Somerled asked himself, calling up the
pretty smile, the soft blue eyes of his friend. He had been inclined to
believe her true. He had liked her very much, more than he liked most
women, and had wondered if he might not learn to like her still better
in time. The women he saw oftenest were mostly nervous, exacting,
self-centred creatures, craving constant flattery. Aline was none of
these things. She had many charms, and he had seen few defects; but a
motive for falseness in the matter of the telegram would suggest itself
to his intelligence. He tried to shut the door in its insinuating,
conceited grin.

"There must be a mistake--somewhere," he mumbled.

"Not here, anyhow," retorted the old lady.

"After all, it's apart from the question in hand. But perhaps my plans
for your granddaughter don't interest you?"

"Not particularly. Still, you may as well tell them. I see you want to."

"And I see"--Somerled squandered a smile, but only because it came
spontaneously--"I see that you want to hear them, because," he dared to
go on with a flash of his keen eyes into hers, "you _do_ care what
becomes of Miss MacDonald. If you had not got Mrs. West's letter, you
would have had no sleep last night. As it is, knowing your granddaughter
has fallen into safe hands, you can comfortably disclaim anxiety."

"You seem to fancy yourself a mind-reader, my good sir," returned Mrs.
MacDonald at her haughtiest, or what Barrie would have called her
"snortiest." "Think what you like. It is nothing to me, and thinking
costs naught. As for the hands she has fallen into, what do I kno